Seriously Joking

 

Humor has always played a role in my life. My father always said I was smart...a smart aleck. Ever since I was young, I would always be cracking jokes. My pursuit for comedic enjoyment also led to countless points of amusement in my life. As several of my tales have shown, I have a knack for getting caught up in misadventures and hijinks due to my decision making. This is due to my attitude that I should not take myself so seriously. Whether it is blasting Hilary Duff, figuring out how to escape from handcuffs, and sending get well cards to hypochondriacs; my antics to amuse myself are numerous. But my constant comedy also serves a purpose. It is a very centering endeavor. Anxiety and apprehension have a way of dissipating when laughter arises. In my mind, I always form laugh inducing scenarios to calm myself in moments of tension. From public speaking, to melee skirmishes with other humans, to fleeing angry mobs, and of course awkward attempts at romance, my joke formulations have prevented panic attacks. This habit led me to try my hand at stand up comedy:

 

My efforts are sophomoric at best but the results were very enlightening. Being on stage attempting to tell jokes was very rewarding no matter what the outcome. It reminded me directly of my martial art activities. Comedy was simply another craft that I was trying to cultivate through practice. Though vastly unskilled at both, I realize the importance of constant practice at both. The more I did stand up, the more comfortable I became and it proved to be quite a rewarding task. My growth at the skill became a more important goal than simple success. On the jokes themselves, the more I inspected at the catalyst for my humor, the greater the realization that comedy was all around me. Anything in life can indeed be made into comedy. This made me even more comfortable with my state of mind. Even in situation where my world view can seem quite bleak. Where doom and despair seem to be what should be on my mind. I am slowly but surely building a comedy fueled flashlight that pierces the darkness. Especially on the day to day grind that life can become. For me, life is such a short epoch of time and my own existence is so miniscule that I cannot help but laugh about it. Others can easily call my outlook on life, crazy. However for me, I am very serious and steadfast in my belief that I will always be joking. No matter what. Hope my life induces laughter to you as well, dear reader. 

The Path to Mastery

The growth of skill is a rather deceiving one. It is not constant or linear at all. Instead it is a series of plateaus that coincide into an asymptote. The more well-versed one is in a skill, than the harder it is to improve. Quite simply, it is hard to get good at something. True masters have realized the secret to getting better. Failure and lots of it. Specifically failing forward, the act of not letting negative aspects hinder one's process. This makes sense logically. Similar to how pressure either crushes a rock into smithereens or transfigures it into a diamond. It is how one reacts to the pressure of failure that dictates how one will progress in life. Because without risk, then there is no reward. It is the simple binary nature of life. There is eustress and distress powering every situation. If there was no strikeout would a homerun be as rewarding? On a grander scale, the same is true with wins and losses. OK, all things one should be aware of, there are countless stories of people overcoming adversity. Tales of Albert Einstein struggling in school and Michael Jordan being cut from his high school team. However both these tales proved to be fictional. Einstein actually performed quite admirably at school and in reality Jordan was only demoted to the junior varsity team his sophomore year. Rather small things and people might argue that the tales lose their allure due to truth. I instead argue the opposite. The significance of these tales is in fact the insignificance of them. There was no movie moment that led to Einstein and Jordan's success, they simply went out and did it. Despite the regular drag of life. They sought out the path of mastery. So back to the original question, why is mastery so elusive. Let us examine exhibit 1:


Situated above is the video of my first Mixed-Martial-Arts fight. I lost. Post fight I heard all the right things, knew that I had to move on and not linger. It resonated and was something that I knew was right. How much of a difference did this make? Well personally, I was still emotionally devastated. It truly hurts. Not in the physical sense but a loss takes its toll mentally. I wanted to win with every fiber of my being. To come short dealt a very harsh blow to my enormous ego. It is not easy. Watching this fight still haunts me and will probably do so until the day I pass. However the adage, "When you lose, don't lose the lesson." This rings very true with my scenario. I understood before hand that failure is a possibility going into any competition. To feel it first hand is a completely different feeling than simply knowing. Though still affected today, I move forward on the path. Because I refuse to let my past dictate my future. Will I succeed? That is unknown. Will I fail again? Maybe so. But none of that matters to me. Because I do not pursue comfort in this life. What I am after is truth. Do I have what it takes to become a master? I truly do not know. One thing I do know is that I will not allow myself to let uncertainty stop me. My struggle as real as it is to me is rather insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe. I do not let this get me down, rather it empowers me. Despite being a mere speck in this world, I intend to live my limited speck life to the fullest. Here's to you reader and whatever path you are on.

She Probably Needed to Be Sedated

The story begins when there was a science project assignment during my middle school years. For the aforementioned assignment, one was to construct a poster with the topic being one of the elements from the periodic table. Our goal was to then present the element akin to how a salesmen presents a product. I recall my teacher stated "Sell the sizzle, not the steak." Years later, I still have no idea what he meant by that. I ended up showing up to presentation day with no poster to show for. When I got called up to present, I thought fast and grabbed a random poster from the pile of submissions. As a preface, I was student body president at my middle school, so I was well versed at lying in front of peers and staff members. Sold so much sizzle on that poster that I got full marks for the project. Until the end of the day rolled around and another kid happened to present the same poster. Then came an issue of priority controversy, with me at first coming out on top. I ended up fessing up so I landed in detention.
So in my state of scholastic confinement, I was tasked with the menial activity of writing an essay outlining the faults that led me to this point. A riveting exercise I assure you. At the conclusion of detention, one was to then share what one wrote with the fellow adolescent troublemakers. It was incredibly exciting, I assure you. About as exciting as the prospect of headbutting a desk repeatedly until unconsciousness gratefully took me away. Which is almost what transpired amidst listening to my delinquent peers stumbling through their essays much akin to a car with no wheels traveling a dirt road. That is until a most exotic juvenile troublemaker took center classroom.
She rocked neon green hair, a scowl, and an acoustic guitar. Most of all, her aura was overpoweringly full of swagger. I was not the only one to take notice. All eyes were glued to Punk Girl (PG) as she stared down at the floor and tuned her guitar. Then she coughed slightly, took a deep breath as she strummed a note, and then belted out profanity riddled rant against public education. All the while her fingers concocted an equally powerful sound that blended into a perfect storm of anger and aggression. Her performance was punctuated by her exiting stage left and leaving the stunned audience' mouths' agape as she strode out while firing a double barreled middle finger salute.

Anyone with a brain stem could tell that girl was trouble. So of course, I sought her out immediately as detention commenced. Like a moth traveling to flame. This moth found his flame at the bus stop smoking a joint and playing Joan Jett's "Bad Reputation." Her attention turned to me as I walked up to her.
With my presence known, I said "Hey, I like your style." She brushed off a bang as she responded,
"I like the way you represent the student body." Touche. Thus our companionship began.
Our time together was a short one. And it ended predictably in a rather violent fashion. It was at one of PG's planned performances at small cafe. I was watching in the audience when my vision was abruptly blocked by another viewer. I asked him politely to move. He refused and dropped some rather inflammatory comments. I took matters into my own hand, socked him hard in the face, dragged him out of the venue, and walked back to my viewing spot. All eyes were on me as I returned. PG looked at me angrier than usual (which is saying something) and then threw her electric guitar at me as she screamed, "That was my brother!"
Needless to say, I did not see much of her again. The bruise from the instrument turned projectile healed but her mark was already made. So the moral of today's story is do all of the work on your homework assignments.